


There is Fire in Your Blood (Burning for a Kindred Spirit)

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Relationship, a handful of months fighting each other before andy found them, and not the entire two hundred year span of the Crusades, here that's where, mostly in that I refuse to believe these two only spent like, where is the appropriate time for Nicky's Catholic guilt crises about being gay and losing faith!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25444417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: When the last Crusader Kingdom falls, Nicolo suddenly realizes he has nowhere left to go. Neither does Yusuf.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 322





	There is Fire in Your Blood (Burning for a Kindred Spirit)

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway the canon version of how Nicky and Joe meet is fine but does not allow adequate space for them to have decades long crises about maybe being gay and also losing faith when they see how pointless the Crusades are so in my head I revised it with 1000% more angry pining and then this takes place after that.
> 
> Mostly I just have a weird fascination with the Crusades and also wanted to write Nicky being introspective and emotional.

When Acre falls to the Saracens in late spring of the year 1291, it finally dawns upon Nicolo that he has nowhere left in the Holy Land to go.

He’s been traveling between the various Crusader states for some hundred odd years now, ever since the Battle of Hattin and subsequent fall of Jerusalem, a wandering soldier lost in time. Sometimes he considers returning to Genoa, but there seems little point; his family will be long dead by now, any wealth he might have had distributed among their descendants, and in any case Nicolo dreads returning because he suspects the Genoa he knew has long since faded into the annals of history. The Holy Land has never ceased its churning seas of chaos since Nicolo first stepped foot here, but at least the merciless beating of the sun, the clash of swords and yelling of soldiers, the smell of blood as it spills across the sands are familiar. An anchor of sorts, for a man who has nothing else. Never mind that Nicolo’s heart hasn’t really been in the fighting since he walked amongst the poor expelled from Jerusalem. It is difficult to fight when you don’t know what exactly it is you’re fighting for, and Nicolo hasn’t known what exactly he’s fighting for in a long, long time.

(Except perhaps the chance to see the Saracen— _his_ Saracen—again, and Nicolo can say it is because he wants to end the heathen’s life once and for all, but his lies have grown so thin and feeble over the years that even he no longer believes them.)

But now, with Acre fallen, there is no place left to run. He knew it was coming, anticipation coursing heavy and thick in his blood ever since the Saracens razed Tripoli to the ground two years ago, but it still hits like the hardest blows he’s ever taken (axe to the neck, courtesy of his Saracen; nearly cut his head clean off, but Nicolo found his revenge in a maul that smashed the man’s skull) to realize there is nowhere left in what has been been his home for nearly two hundred years to return to. In his younger days, he would have been furious, seething at the indignation and ready to cross swords with any cursed heathen foolish enough to tread near. But now?

Now Nicolo is old, and he is tired, and he has nothing left but the clothes on his back and a sturdy longsword. So he takes these, as well as some provisions and a horse that does not belong to him, and leaves a still burning Acre under cover of night to begin the journey to… somewhere. He’s not sure where yet. He simply heads east and prays God will see fit to show him his final destination somewhere upon the pilgrim road, if a God exists to do such a thing, which is something Nicolo doubts more and more.

Two days of heavy riding brings him into the mountains surrounding Lake Tiberias, where Nicolo pitches camp by a small stream as night falls, bringing out a full circle of silver moon and a deep indigo sky resplendent with glittering stars. He keeps his fire small, just enough to peer through the darkness, for the air is pleasantly warm and his thin woolen tunic comfortable enough against the elements. He drinks deeply from the water, memories of Hattin still fresh in his mind over a hundred years later. Nicolo has died many deaths, but he still thinks thirst may be the worst of them all.

A noise breaks through the relative quiet of buzzing insects and a mild breeze, and Nicolo has his sword in hand before even registering the source. A faint clopping against the ground, followed by the familiar whinny of a horse. He relaxes minutely, confident that even the most hostile rider will be no match for him, until the animal draws close enough for its rider to be seen.

Nicolo is dimly aware that his first thought upon seeing the Saracen—his Saracen—ought to be something along the lines of _heathen, devil, cursed stain upon this good Earth which God has gifted us, I will strike you down once more._

What his first thought actually is, Nicolo notes with less panicked distress and more tired resignation than usual, is that the Saracen has trimmed his hair and his beard since last they saw each other, and it makes him look even more handsome than usual. A small part of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Padre Giacomo chides him not to think in such terms, but Nicolo swats it away as one might a fly at dinner. He has long since given up on trying to deny his sinful attraction to the Saracen, even as he remains intent not to act upon it.

Still, he does not drop his sword, and his eyes do not leave the other man’s form as recognition dawns upon his face and a deep furrow settles upon his brow while a hand goes to the hilt of his scimitar. For several long moments they simply stare at each other, and the air grows so thick with tension it could be sliced and smeared upon bread. Waiting, watching, wondering—who will strike the first blow this time? How long will they fight before the mental exhaustion forces them to lay down their arms? Will one of them truly die this time, or will they be locked in an endless dance of hot blood and clashing steel until Christ returns, and Armageddon rages across the earth?

The mere thought of such an existence makes Nicolo want to cut his own head off, just to see if that will finally make the end permanent. He’s tired. He’s so very tired, and for perhaps the first time in his unnaturally long life, he doesn’t want to fight anymore.

So Nicolo drops his sword.

It lands upon the ground mere inches from his hand, close enough still that he could grab it should the Saracen move. But there is weight in the action, an immeasurable intent that shatters the tension into pieces. Nicolo says nothing, but he doesn’t think he needs to. He sees the Saracen’s expression soften, and Nicolo lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when a moment later, his hand leaves the scimitar.

The Saracen dismounts, and Nicolo watches carefully as he leads his horse to the stream, both of them drinking deeply. Once finished he ties the horse’s reins to the same tree that hold Nicolo’s, and then grabs something from one of his packs that he takes to the edge of the fire, where he sits down.

At this, Nicole raises an eyebrow. Not wanting to fight the Saracen and inviting him to share Nicolo’s fire are not remotely the same intent, but then the Saracen sets between them what he grabbed from his pack—dried figs, young cheese, and the soft round bread favored by his people that Nicolo has grudgingly come to love over the centuries. Nicolo’s mouth waters, his meager dinner of salt pork seeming laughable in hindsight, and he cannot help but give the Saracen a questioning look.

The Saracen’s lips twitch, almost as though he means to smile, and Nicolo needs no more encouragement. He takes from the offering with eager hands, almost sighing in pleasure at the sweetness of fig when it hits his tongue, followed by the salty tang of cheese and the chewy softness of the still fresh bread. Sometimes Nicolo thinks the Saracens made a deal with the Devil for the secret of how to make good, soft bread, and if the price paid is damnation of their souls, it might well have been worth it.

They eat in silence. The tension rises again, though it’s different this time, less sharp and more blunt. Nicolo begins to feel mildly uncomfortable in taking the Saracen’s food without sharing something of his own, but all he has is salt pork and a bottle of French wine he stole from a merchant’s destroyed storehouse before leaving Acre, and he knows enough about Moslems to understand neither of those would be a welcome offering. He chews on his bottom lip for several moment, trying to decide if apologizing is necessary, and if so whether it’s worth breaking the silence for, when suddenly the Saracen says, “I didn’t see you at Acre.”

Nicolo blinks slowly. “… I wasn’t fighting,” he admits after a long, awkward pause. His Arabic sounds rough and halting, his confidence in speaking the heathen language still not completely solid even after decades of learning. “I was in the harbor, helping to evacuate the citizens.”

Now it’s the Saracen’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “The great Italian Knight, not upon the front lines of battle? Will wonders never cease.”

The mockery of his words is dulled by a gentleness in his tone, and it makes the corner’s of Nicolo’s mouth turn up, ever so slightly. “Acre was going to fall anyway,” he offers by way of explanation. “Keeping people alive seemed a more worthy cause than trying to delay the inevitable.”

The Saracen chuckles. “Indeed,” he says, and Nicolo knows him to be sincere. That thought brings more comfort than he thinks it should.

“You must be happy.”

The Saracen blinks, and then frowns. “Why?” he asks.

“The Christians are at last expelled from the Holy Land,” Nicolo answers. “Isn’t that what you were fighting for?”

The frown deepens, though it is not angry. Rather, an expression blooms across the Saracen’s face that Nicolo has only ever seen reflected back at him from highly polished shields or crystal clear waters. Behind the Saracen’s deep brown eyes lies a soul that has been too much, _done_ too much, been alive for longer than souls were meant to live, and Nicolo knows as surely as he knows his own heartbeat that the Saracen, like him, has long since lost sight of what he was fighting for.

“It’s more complicated than that,” the Saracen replies after a pause. “The brothers I fought alongside in the beginning are not those who rule the land now. Better than you Christians certainly, but… It is no longer the Caliphate I wanted to fight for.”

Nicolo frowns. “Then why keep fighting at all?” he asks, and thinks it is as much a question to the Saracen as it is to himself. 

_Why fight when you no longer believe in the false words and accolades of the Church and those who claim God’s glory? Why fight when_ _you barely believe in God at all anymore? Why fight when all it achieved was losing everything, and a hundred thousand innocent lives besides?_

The Saracen sighs then, and it is a sigh that carries the full weight of two centuries. Nicolo feels it shudder through him, sinking all the way down to his bones.

“Only Allah knows,” the Saracen says, and tilts his head back to regard the sky, as though the stars there might offer the answers he seeks. “Perhaps it was because I had no home to return to, no family left to call my own. Perhaps it was because to yield a sword and hold a shield are the only skills I felt I had left to offer. Perhaps a life a violence and bloodshed is all I know, and I have not the strength to leave it, for my soul craves the comfort of the familiar, even as it grows to despise it.”

A lump rises in Nicolo’s throat, the air in his lungs suddenly thick and difficult to expel. The Saracen lowers his head and Nicolo finds himself trapped by the intensity in his gaze, dark eyes turning to amber in the firelight and voice smooth like the slow drip of honey as he speaks his next words. 

“Or perhaps it is all, and more. And when I longed for the comfort of a kindred spirit, the only way I knew to find him was on the battlefield.”

There is fire in Nicolo’s blood.

It is always there, smoldering embers that flare into blazes when the occasion arises—on the glorious eve of battle, in the righteousness of fury, when shame and guilt over sinful thoughts or actions prove to be overwhelming. It rises within him so sharp and furious that Nicolo bites his lip to keep down a gasp, as he burns from the inside out with emotion for this man, this heathen, this Saracen, _his_ Saracen. They have been sworn enemies for two entire centuries, cutting flesh and spilling blood and breaking bone more times than can be remembered, and yet they share a gift that is also a curse and Nicolo knows as surely as he knows the heart beating frantically against his ribs that he could live until kingdom come but he will never find another who would understand him as this man does.

Nicolo doesn’t even know his _name._

And he’s almost certain the Saracen doesn’t know his, either. 

So without breaking his gaze, Nicolo says by way of answer, “I’m Nicolo. Nicolo di Genova.”

The Saracen blinks, and then he smiles. A real smile, a _wonderful_ smile, one that stretches until it crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the Saracen has always been handsome but not like this, _never_ like this, like he wears the sun upon his skin and the moon upon his lips and the stars within his eyes, and Nicolo has never allowed himself to think before of how much he wants to _know_ this man, but now he could no more stop the course of his thoughts than he could lay down permanently to rest.

“I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn Al-Kaysani,” the Saracen says, and laughs at Nicolo’s bug-eyed stare. “But just Yusuf will do, Nicolo.”

The way Yusuf says his name makes Nicolo think of honey and butter being spread across still warm bread, and the fire within him burns all the more. He thinks it should scare him, the deep well of _wanting_ that bubbles up from the very depths of Nicolo’s soul and bleeds out into his heart.

It doesn’t.

“Where are you traveling, Yusuf?” he asks, feeling the weight of the name on his tongue. He’s not sure what to make of how much he likes it, thinks that it sounds like it was always meant to be there.

Yusuf shrugs. “No idea,” he admits with a little bit of a smile. “You?”

Nicolo chuckles. “Not a clue.”

It’s the last exchange between them that night, but the silence that falls holds little tension now, instead settling over them like a blanket, comfortable and warm. In the morning they fill up their waterskins, share the last of the cheese and bread, and without a word, set off upon the road together. 

The fire within him still burns, and Nicolo wonders how long it will be before he is consumed.

**Author's Note:**

> They don't each other's names because the idea of having a sworn mortal enemy for two hundred years and not knowing his name is extremely funny to me, and only me.


End file.
